


Hospitality

by lnhammer



Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Metamorphoses - Ovid
Genre: Chaucerian AU, Dark Bedroom, Data Sampling, F/M, M/M, Modern Retelling, Poetry, Rhyme Royal Stanzas, Sex Farce, Stubbed toes, Watch out for the cradle, Young married couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:46:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28597173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lnhammer/pseuds/lnhammer
Summary: Imagine, if you will, two gods on earth,pretending that they’re mortal men to testwhether, within the realm of death and birth,the laws of hospitality for guestswere honored in the heart or were repressed.Or, what happens when the myth of Baucis & Philemon is retold as a Reeve’s Tale AU.
Relationships: Baucis/Philemon (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hermes/Baucis (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Hermes/Philemon (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Zeus/Baucis (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Zeus/Hermes (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Zeus/Philemon (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: Greek Myth Sex Farces [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097087





	Hospitality

Imagine, if you will, two gods on earth,  
pretending that they’re mortal men to test  
whether, within the realm of death and birth,  
the laws of hospitality for guests  
were honored in the heart or were repressed.  
Sounds odd, I know—I’d understand if you  
decide this is a fable. Yet, it’s true.

Zeus thought to hold this audit to avoid  
Queen Hera’s snit. He’d not exactly lied—  
the girl had been a nymph—but this annoyed  
his wife the more: she glowered, evil-eyed.  
And so, with crafty Hermes as his guide  
to human customs, the king of gods descended  
until his marital relations mended.

First stop on his agenda was Phrygia,  
the realm of Midas of the golden touch  
and gods’ acquaintance—so surely this would be a  
piously managed kingdom, inasmuch  
as mortals take to rulers, rules, and such.  
Zeus knew that gods were fractious, and so dreamed  
humans obeyed the ones that they esteemed.

His theory was that rational Hellenes,  
scorning their ruling families’ flaunted flaws—  
their hubris, tangled bloodlines, and tragic queens—  
would flout both royal- and divine-laid laws.  
You wonder, Why Asia Minor then? Because  
he needed a baseline for comparison,  
so with a city there began his run.

Knowing human nature, you can guess  
what happened. “Sorry—no.” Zeus was shocked:  
His foreign accent and beggar’s raggedness  
made settled townsmen keep their doorways blocked,  
their faces shuttered, and their wallets locked.  
Even Hermes was startled at the ubiquity  
of xenophobia and man’s iniquity.

Results were clear from early data points  
but sampling turned to survey as stubborn gods  
tried every house in town: all disappoint.  
Complete rejection seemed against the odds,  
but slowly demonstratum met its quods  
till only a final outlier was left:  
a hovel on the hill, alone, bereft.

They knocked, and heard a baby squall within;  
A woman opened. “We’re travellers who—” said Zeus,  
but she, as others, cut him off. “Come in!  
It’s nearly dark—come in—beware the goose—  
we’re having beans and cabbage—please excuse  
the mess—come in. Look, Philemon—they need  
A place to stay tonight—we must, indeed.”

Her husband, handing her the infant, stepped  
forward to guide his guests to hearthside seats,  
“To warm your hands.” The house was spare and swept,  
despite the woman’s protest—even neat,  
although the furniture was incomplete  
and water-damaged. Still, sitting was good  
in the warmth of family and firewood.

The couple had lived beside the river till  
the floods last summer washed them upside-down—  
for which bad luck, their neighbors shunned them still.  
“It’s just as well you didn’t go into town,”  
grave Philemon confided, “they’d just frown.”  
Hermes urbanely thanked him for the warning  
and said that they’d avoid it in the morning.

Aside from wanting company, their hosts showed  
no discontent: her cheerful stream of chatter  
and his polite inquiries about the road  
both honored them as guests and carefully scattered  
attention from the fact that, in making dinner fatter,  
each paring from the smoke-cured haunch of boar  
was cutting into their thin winter store.

Their hostess served the meal on earthenware  
just as the gods could feel their marrow thaw.  
Their pallet was one dining couch, and spare  
blankets became another, stuffed with straw.  
The wine was generous, if somewhat raw;  
the food, while not ambrosial, was filling—  
and spiced with hunger’s salt, the taste was thrilling.

The gods ate gratefully. In turn, they told  
news of the world outside the local sphere.  
They liked these mortals, who were not as old  
as feared—in brighter light, their youth was clear  
(especially the woman: “Call me Baucis, dear”)—  
and they’d the manners of their former status,  
as if this station was a mere hiatus.

In short, the meal was merry—the wine was stronger  
than first it seemed, and Philemon had a way  
with quiet tales that drew out laughter longer.  
So when it ended with a beechwood tray  
of honeyed dates, the gods were keen to stay  
the night, even upon the makeshift beds—  
given the couple, eager as newlyweds.

For in those days, good hospitality  
required a body warm the bed for guests,  
and they’d no servants. Lustful Zeus could see  
the swelling curve of nursing Baucis’ breast,  
which so deserved to be divinely caressed.  
And Philemon’s working body? Hermes thought  
his touches could release its delights held taut.

So all retired to their respective beds——  
I must explain this carefully, however,  
given how often the tale is told to shreds  
in mouths of poets both thick-tongued and clever,  
so please excuse the space as I endeavor  
(despite the risk my story slows to drought)  
to clearly lay the situation out.

A single room; two pallets, both rough-laid;  
a cradle at the better’s foot; door latched,  
the darkness totaled to Tartarus-grade.  
By local custom, older men attached  
themselves to lads, so Zeus found he’d been matched  
with Philemon in the master bed—aware  
of Hermes warmed by Baucis in the spare.

Not that Zeus felt indifferent to boys  
(see Ganymede) but still, a girl—one raring,  
judging by looks she gave, to loose some noise….  
His consolation: Hera had been swearing  
at women—men, he could keep snaring;  
with Philemon to put him at his ease,  
he took his rest in night’s activities.

The couple did their duties well—the wife  
with eagerness, for any intercourse  
after two years of being shunned was life  
amid the desert of societal divorce,  
even when with a smooth-chinned last recourse  
and not the bearded, manly pinnacle.  
Her husband, though, was merely dutiful.

Though to be fair, he was, perhaps, distracted  
by pleasure sounding from the other bed—  
the rhythmic breathing that the dark refracted  
from sighs to cries, if only in his head.  
He tried to focus on his task instead—  
take joy in buttocks at a minimum—  
but his enthusiasm shrank to numb.

After some time, Zeus felt a different call  
of nature: his bladder needed quick relief—  
for wine is merely borrowed, after all.  
In his fumblings with the latch (mercifully brief),  
Hermes heard his chance to play a thief:  
He slid the crib from master bed to spare  
and joined the mortal man to take his share.

When Zeus returned, his urgent need relieved,  
he fumbled for the cradle to find his place  
and partner—turned to female now. Not grieved,  
he took her up into a state of grace  
while she, in turn, returned his strong embrace.  
Meanwhile, her Philemon soon came to know  
the pleasures of divine fellatio.

Two couples coupled, tongues and pliant lips  
playing off skin, hands cupping breasts just so  
so nipples tightened, licensed fingertips  
caressing flanks and sides, learning to go  
before behind between above below,  
granted the friendships of the inner thighs—  
collapsing when all breath was spent in sighs.

The four of them could happily have stayed  
right there, but parenthood prevented this:  
The baby woke them wailing—hungry, afraid.  
Poor Baucis stood, cursing to Artemis,  
and stumbled (someone’d placed the crib amiss)  
then fed her, rocked her, shushed her, all the rest—  
outside, to ease the ears of sleeping guests.

Both Philemon and Hermes also rose—  
the latter, with an urgent need to pee,  
to go, as Zeus, where everybody goes;  
the former, puzzled by the place where he  
had heard his daughter cry, to quietly  
discover the crib’s below the other bed.  
He moved it back to the foot of his instead.

When Hermes finished, Baucis still hushed and held  
her squalling child. For pity’s sake he threw  
with Argus-practiced ease a charm that quelled  
her darling to sleep, before returning to  
the bed the clever god believed he knew  
was his: the one where now no cradle was kept—  
the one where Zeus, not Philemon, now slept.

The elder god, awakened by, he thought,  
his partner retransforming back to male  
(not checking what kind of person he had caught),  
felt up for one more round of chase the tail.  
Hermes liked sex—a god can never fail  
an appetite—besides, if he confessed,  
the truth meant trouble, so he acquiesced.

Baucis came in, her duty done as mother,  
to lay her infant down, and as she did,  
she moved the cradle from one bed to the other—  
returning it, she thought, from where it slid—  
then lay down in the former as duty bid  
and desire liked—expecting, you understand,  
the older man’s embrace, not husband’s hands.

Now, _he_ was listening to the other bed,  
imagining his wife’s participation—  
hearing unforced delight, which fed his dread;  
imagine his delight to learn that ration  
of jealousy was unearned perturbation.  
They released the arousal anguish brought—  
their best sex since the baby, Baucis thought.

And that’s where matters lay when morning came,  
bringing with it the light of revelations.  
Baucis used breakfast business to delay the blame,  
while Philemon chewed thoughts of conjugations;  
Hermes lay mum, eliding his migrations—  
so Zeus was left alone to stew conclusions  
about last night’s incredible confusions:

Namely, since Hermes would rather shag a sheep  
than him, it’d been their sly young hosts instead—  
because (how sweet!) they couldn’t stand to sleep  
apart for even one night, like newlyweds.  
“The time has come to grant your boon,” he said.  
The couple traded glances, then weakly smiled  
to calm their transformed guest, mad or beguiled.

But then a wilder transformation, to show,  
by stature, clothing, glory, a god revealed.  
“Because,” Zeus told the trembling couple, “although  
you honored host law’s civilizing shield,  
your love’s a stronger sword that forced you to yield;  
you slept together, working guiltily.  
I honor this desire by decree:

“Henceforth, you’ll only sleep with one another.  
And furthermore, I’ve spared you from my spate  
of retribution rained upon your brothers.”  
Outside, the Lord of Waters displayed his hate:  
their valley filled by flooding up to their gate.  
They stared. They swallowed. Philemon said, “But—”  
but stopped when Baucis elbowed hard his gut.

Instead, they jointly thanked their awesome guest,  
despite the knowledge they were no longer free—  
his first gift (ignoring the horror of the rest)  
ruled out indulging in adultery  
or watching same, however excitedly,  
living apart (divorced or otherwise),  
and one surviving after the other dies.

The gods accepted gratitude with grace,  
and then departed (Hermes kissed them both)  
to test the will of mainland Greece’s race—  
while yesterday’s results had made Zeus loath  
to gather more, this morning brought regrowth  
of hope for harvesting still better deeds  
supporting marriage (Hera’s earnest creed).

As for our mortals—well, I understand  
assisting refugees beside their lake  
lifted their status higher than beforehand,  
an honor unimagined while awake.  
And that’s the truth. No moral here, which makes  
it hard to pretend this is a fable—sorry.  
For that, you’ll have to host another story.


End file.
